


standing here beside me

by darlingargents



Category: Salem's Lot - Stephen King
Genre: Character Study, Future Fic, Introspection, Life on the Road, M/M, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-02 15:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/pseuds/darlingargents
Summary: After the Lot, Mark and Ben build a life.





	standing here beside me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verecunda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/gifts).

> Title from This Must Be The Place by Talking Heads.

Mark has, over the course of his short nineteen years, become an expert in many things. He speaks three languages: English, Spanish, and Québécois French. He is an excellent driver, and his sense of direction is impeccable, on the road and off; he hasn’t lost north in years. He has lived in three countries, moving regularly — fifteen US states, two Mexican states, and three Canadian provinces. He is an expert in silent communication.

Mostly, though, his expertise is in killing vampires.

There are many ways and methods to do it. Stakes, fire, holy water and crosses. A gun on his belt to get the monster down, and whatever else he has on hand — lighter fluid and a flame, a sharpened piece of fencepost — to finish the job.

It’s not where he expected to be, but sometimes it feels like the most inevitable path his life could have taken. Him and Ben, the two of them against the world. Small town after small town. Nights in motels, or in the car when they’re too far off the beaten path to find a bed for the night. Ben picks up his royalty checks when they stay somewhere long enough to have a mailing address, and it’s more than enough to keep them going. Mark picks up small jobs in the towns they stop in, sometimes; he’s spent summers picking fruit in the hot sun and coming back to the motel room to Ben and his typewriter, getting down words like his life depends on it.

Fruit-picking, day shifts with landscapers, shovelling snow and restarting cars in the winter. He started at fourteen, when he shot up like a weed and could say with a straight face that he was sixteen and ready to work (he didn’t look it, really, but he’s a good liar.) It makes him feel more like he and Ben are partners, since he’s bringing in some money as well. It’s nowhere near as much as Ben’s royalties, but he can pretend.

They don’t find vampires everywhere they go. They research and stop where it seems likely that one of them is starting up a coven, and investigate. Anywhere from two weeks to six months later, they either confirm that there’s nothing there, or they go in for the kill. (Fire, blood, and holy symbols burning Mark’s eyelids; bruises on their arms and legs when they’re hours away and finally feel safe enough to shower and fall asleep.) So far, they’ve never failed to kill a vampire they’ve found, but Mark doesn’t find much comfort in that. If they fail, they die, and it only takes one mistake.

It’s why he sleeps four or five hours a night and spends the rest of it going on runs, learning the layout of the town and getting exercise at the same time (with a weapon or two in his pockets, just in case) or doing push-ups if it’s too cold outside. It’s why he spends hours in tiny libraries as hot as ovens, with windows that don’t open and stiflingly bright sun shining in, reading over old newspaper articles, trying to find the connections and where they lead. Disappearances, old houses suddenly gaining new occupants, the town shut-ins. Ben is the one who finds out what the locals know; he has a knack for it, for getting people to trust him. Mark has tried, but something about him, apparently, tends to disturb and unnerve others.

“His _ eyes_,” he remembers an older woman saying to her friend, after he’d realized they wouldn’t speak to him about anything and left. He was around the corner, out of sight but close enough to hear. “Too old. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was like he was looking past me and there was someone dying over my shoulder… and he didn’t care at all.”

Not what he was going for, certainly, but Mark can see where she got the idea. He had been fifteen. He did then, and still does, dream of his parents’ death every night.

Anywhere but Maine. Virginia. Montana. Tennessee. Québec. Minnesota. Sonora. Texas. North Carolina. Manitoba. The places blur together, and they’re all the same, really: the same highways and open skies and motel rooms. The landscapes are different — forests and deserts and mountains — but they all have a sameness about them. They never stop in big cities; they find what they’re looking for, or they don’t, and they move on to the next small town. It’s comforting, in a way. Mark doesn’t know how he’d cope with a city. Too much movement at night.

*

It’s mid-May and they’ve been here since late February, long enough to see the snow melt and the colours start to come back. It’s the furthest north they’ve ever been: a small town in northern British Columbia, Canada, nestled in the mountains.There’s a river that wraps around the town and flows into a deep, ice-cold lake with pebbled shores. (It’s cold all year round, apparently; fed from melting mountain snow. Mark doesn’t care. He skated on it until the ice began to crack and melt in late March, and he’s been swimming in it since mid-April.)

This town is like the others: small, quiet, off the beaten track. Next to no tourists, outside of a couple of months in the summer. There’s no motel, just two or three bed and breakfasts that open in June, so Mark and Ben rented out a house — they’ve done it before, but rarely; it takes adjusting. Ben has been trying to teach Mark to cook, bachelor-style (as he calls it): eggs and steak and potatoes, with added frozen vegetables. It’s a nice break from diner burgers and microwave meals.

The house came pre-furnished: a dining table with three chairs, a couch, coffee table, lamp, and television, and one queen-sized bed in the single bedroom. There were no other houses in town to rent. (At least not in the middle of winter; the few lakeside cottage owners were long gone for Vancouver and Edmonton and Calgary, with no way of contacting them.) Ben had shrugged at Mark when the landlord told them over breakfast at the one restaurant in town, a shrug that conveyed _ what are you going to do_, and Mark had shrugged back at him, _ no big deal_. The landlord had seemed mildly surprised at their quick acceptance, but the house hadn’t been rented out since summer and he was eager to close the deal. Ben had gone through with the paperwork, and Mark had stared down at his now-cold coffee as they shook hands.

The thing is, Mark is very good at compartmentalizing and shutting down thoughts that don’t benefit him. He’s so good at it, in fact, that they rarely come out at all, and he’s barely aware of them. His dreams are the one outlet, and often, they’re where he first discovers how he feels about something that his mind has been shutting down.

Not this time. He knew the moment he saw the room.

Ben is not his father. Ben has never been and has never felt like his father. Mark has always admired him, cared for him, loved him, in a way he’d seen for years as brotherly, or even something more: something almost beyond humanity. They’d been forged together by the Lot and everything since, and as much as Mark needs Ben, Ben needs him, too. He didn’t realize that until a few years down the line, when he was fourteen, stitching up a still-bleeding gash in Ben’s shoulder with steady, methodical hands, and Ben’s quiet, unconditional trust hit him all at once.

All that to say — he’d been sixteen. They had left Québec in a hurry — they’d set a house on fire and it had caught, and Mark had hoped against hope that it wasn’t going to burn down the whole town — and they’d crossed into Ontario as the sun went down before stopping to sleep in the car overnight.

They’d been in the backseat, the weak car-light on, and Ben was wrapping up Mark’s arm, where he’d fallen on the splintered edge of a porch and tore it open. He’d wrapped it in an extra shirt for the drive and it had gotten soaked through. Ben had peeled the shirt away, wiped the blood away and cleaned the wound with rubbing alcohol, and methodically wrapped the gauze around and around Mark’s forearm.

Ben’s hands were warm and soft against his skin. The dark outside seemed endless and terrifying. And when the gauze was secured and Ben was closing the first-aid kit, Mark had been seized by something he didn’t understand, and he’d leaned in and kissed Ben.

It was the longest ten seconds of his life. Every moment is still burned into his memory, as strongly as the worst memories of the Lot and every violent moment since: his hand on Ben’s wrist, feeling his heartbeat speed up and up and up, his other hand trembling against Ben’s jaw and the feeling of stubble under his fingers, Ben’s hot breath in his mouth.

Then Ben had pulled away, said, “Not now,” in the strangest tone of voice Mark had ever heard from him, and finished putting away the first-aid kit. They’d fallen asleep next to each other in the car, Mark’s lips still tingling, their fingertips inches apart on the seat.

They hadn’t spoken of it since. Mark had never tried again, even though he’d thought about it, over and over — late at night, or while flipping through flimsy local history books, or watching Ben sleeping in his chair, one hand still on his typewriter like he’s trying to transcribe his dreams.

_ Not now. _ He hadn’t said _ no,_ he hadn’t said _ you’re a son to me_, he hadn’t said _ never again_.

Mark thinks about it nearly every day.

More so now that they’re sharing a bed every night. It’s impossible to ignore, lying awake, listening to Ben’s breathing, waiting for the signs of a nightmare.

(Every night — the sped-up breathing, the gasps through clenched teeth, until he wakes up. It’s the only time Mark feels like he can come up close and wrap his arms around him, until his heart slows down and he’s stopped shaking.

Ben does the same for him, when he wakes up from a nightmare.)

They’re close to finishing the job. They’ve narrowed down the disappearances in the last few years to ones that could be reasonably considered suspicious, they’ve found the house that they think may hold a vampire, and soon, they’ll go in at midday and see what they find. A few of their neighbours are older folks that Mark has taken to helping out — carrying their groceries, shovelling their driveways until the snow melted, letting himself be plied with tea and cookies — and in return, they’ve given him valuable pieces of gossip and occasionally a twenty-dollar bill to “go and get yourself something nice.” (“Something nice” tended to be weapons-themed, but it’s the thought that counts.) It’s comfortable, and Mark’s ready to move on. He doesn’t like staying in one place for long.

He says as much to Ben the night before they plan to make their move. They’re eating dinner in the tiny dining room, and one of the lights right above the table is almost burnt out; it dims and flickers every few seconds. Mark is watching it, and almost misses the look that passes over Ben’s face.

“What?” he says, because he does notice it — there’s very little he doesn’t notice about Ben these days.

Ben takes another bite of his chicken and looks contemplatively at his plate. “Do you ever think we’ve done enough?”

It’s a question that Mark has asked himself, many times, and he always comes up with the same answer. “No.”

“What would be enough?”

Mark looks back up at the flickering light. It’s not quite dark enough outside to need it; summer is coming in fast. This is dangerously close to what they don’t talk about: the Lot. Maine. They haven’t gone back to New England since they burned the Lot and killed what was left behind. Mark thinks he probably never will.

What would be enough? The world being safe. Mark being able to sleep a full night again. It’s not all on them — of course it’s not. Mark knows that. It doesn’t change the fact that it sometimes feels like they’re the only real people in the world, and the only ones who can do this.

“When it’s done,” he says, knowing it’s nonsensical and hoping Ben will understand anyway. Ben is looking at him and Mark can’t interpret the look on his face.

“Let’s go to the lake,” Ben says after a long, heavy moment. Mark nods, at a loss for words. He finishes his dinner, barely tasting the last few bites, and grabs a towel for each of them out of the tiny bathroom. Ben hands him the car keys at the door.

It’s a five-minute drive, and they’re on the far end of town. The sunset is painting the evergreens red and gold, and they pass by lit-up windows of the townspeople eating dinner. As Mark reaches the highest point of the town, where they can see the whole of the lake and the mountains behind it, the sunset is reflecting off the glassy surface. It almost looks like it’s aflame.

The car ride stays silent as Mark takes the car down the winding path to the rocky beach. There won’t be anyone else; the few others willing to brave the freezing water will have done so at midday. They’re completely alone.

Ben is out of the car as soon as it’s stopped, before Mark has even turned it off. He pulls off his shirt, and Mark looks away as he strips down and wades into the water. Mark goes slower when he gets out: places the towels on the hood of the car, then methodically takes off his shoes, his socks, his belt, his watch. He hesitates at his boxers before pulling them off as well. It’s still light out, but Ben is facing away from him, and there might as well be no one but them for a thousand miles around.

The water is, as he expected, so cold it feels like burning. He’s gone in it once or twice, but only during the day; the sunset isn’t enough to warm him now. His feet start to go numb in seconds, and he can barely feel the sharp rocks at his feet as he wades in deeper. Ahead of him, Ben is chest-deep, his hair dripping.

When the water is up to the small of his back, Ben turns around. The sun is behind him, almost halo-like.

“There’s nothing here,” he says.

It’s a complete non sequitur. “What?” Mark says.

Ben looks at him: calm, steady, the rock that’s always been there for Mark to cling to in the dark. “I went to the house today. There’s nothing. No corpses, no bats, no vampires.”

“So we move on. Find another.”

“We’ve killed hundreds of them. How many lives do you think have been saved?”

“It’s not enough. It never—”

“It can be enough.” Ben turns back around, looks at the sunset. “I’m tired. So are you.”

“I…” Mark stops. He runs his hands over his face, the cold water a shock to his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He’s still walking; he’s close enough to touch Ben now.

“We’ve done enough. Don’t we deserve it?”

“We can’t—”

Ben turns around and kisses him.

His lips are cold as ice and his breath is hot against Mark’s mouth. His heart, where Mark’s hand is braced against his chest, is beating like a rabbit’s, fast and frantic. It’s desperate, messy, undisciplined, and absolutely, undeniably perfect.

It ends sooner than Mark would like. Ben pulls away and Mark realizes how cold they both are, standing in the freezing lake, and a laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

“What?” Ben says, half-smiling. He looks almost nervous.

“We’re going to freeze to death,” Mark says, and takes his hand. They end up on the shore, towels spread on the rocks, half-dressed. The sun is almost down, and night is rapidly falling around them.

Mark doesn’t have a weapon on his person. For once, he doesn’t care.

They watch the sun go down, not speaking and understanding each other perfectly. When it’s full dark and the stars are coming out, Ben says, quietly, “Let’s stay here.”

Not forever, Mark wants to say. There’s so much to see, so much to do. But that’s in the future, and this is now, and he’s sure Ben knows as well as he does that they won’t be here forever. Just for now.

It’s not done, but maybe they can rest.

“Yes,” he says.


End file.
